Twin Mountains
by ithros falasson
Summary: Tamriel burns. Its people lie slaughtered. Now the survivors must flee to a world where they can escape the tortures of the Thalmor. But new dangers await. How can they prevail to this strange darkness?
1. Chapter 1

Twin Mountains, White and Red.

Chapter 1

The winds blew cold down the mountain side, carrying the smell of snow and the sea. The sky was thick with heavy, dark clouds, though their loads of snow had yet to fall. Far below, on the bluffs overlooking a river as it ran down out of the mountain pass, flowing east, into the sea, a city sprawled. Its stone wall, slick with snow, ice, and rain, stood tall and indomitable. Stretching forth from the walls, spanning the mighty river below, was a great stone bridge; the first defense of a city that had stood millennia.

On an overlooking balcony, in the city's lone tower, an old man stood silently. His beard and long braided hair were gray, like the icy stone of the great palace beneath his feet. His eyes were ice blue, like the great bergs floating in the sea to the north, though they had become clouded with age. His hands were gnarled, rough, calloused from years of holding an axe's wrapped handle. That very axe, with ornate knot work in the quicksilver its head, the blade angled sharply forward, rested at his hip while those aged hands lay on the stone balustrade of the balcony.

The old man sighed, his shoulders sagging beneath a richly adorned robe, mantled in the dappled white fur of a mighty snow bear, its interior lined with the pelt of a savage saber cat. His brows furrowed beneath his snow frost hair, the locks held back by a circlet of jade and emerald, mined from the hills to the southeast. The failing eyes look from the city below, to a great sprawl of tents and wagons, just beyond the great bridge. The land was covered, from the river to the hot springs in the south, to the mountains in the east. Thousands upon thousands moved through the tent city, and more joined the throng every day. And if the man looked to his left, to the east, he would see another, if smaller, tent city upon the western shores of the great river.

The ages man sighed again, and raised his weary eyes to look south once more, beyond the make-shift settlement outside his walls, to the dull red glow on the horizon. The source of the illumination was beyond his sight, hidden by the mountain to the southwest, but he knew its source, its reason. He knew that the red light was why his lands were filled with hollow-eyed men, starving women, and screaming babes. He knew the cause of that smoldering glow, knew it was the product of an enemy of incalculable numbers; an enemy that sought to annihilate all the lives laid out before him, for no more reason than a belief in racial supremacy and a vengeance validated only in myths older than time. The gnarled hands tightened their grip on the stone, as High King Keldaf Dragonsblood snarled, "Fucking Thalmor."

Keldaf turned and looked up the mountain slope just outside the walls to the north. Though a haze had settled over the peaks as snow began to fall, he could make out the movement of large indistinct shapes shifting along the mountain side. Every so often, one of the blurred forms would leap into the sky, disappearing into the clouds. Great, hollow bellows filled the evening air, echoing down from the overcast twilight. Keldaf counted silently, as he had done so often of late. "Only a dozen," He muttered to himself. "Is that really all that's left? All that is left of the children of Akatosh?" Keldaf returned his gaze to the vast city of tents. "Have the witch elves of Alinor driven us to this? My people, refugees in our own lands? Half the kingdom, a waste land of horrors and death? The mightiest of beings, a bare dozen where once hundreds darkened the sky with their wings?" A tear ran down his cheek, unnoticed in his contemplations.

A new roaring shook Keldaf from his revelry. This new call was different; it came from the south. He moved back to the wall of his balcony. There, beyond the edge of the mountain's ridge to the south, a tiny speck in the sky. At first, Keldaf thought it a hawk, but it swiftly began to grow larger. Another cry rang out, and the king recognized its meaning. It was not a cry of melancholy and mourning, like what he had heard from the northern slopes. No, this was a call of greeting, of peaceful intent. Soon, Keldaf could make out a flash of color in the feeble overcast light of dusk: red.

Now, the high king could see other features of the approaching form; a long sinuous neck, a head as large as a horse. It had wings longer than most houses, and taloned feet to rend even the thickest armor to scrap metal. Its tail could crush a giant's skull. The great beast suddenly dipped low, swooping down to skim over the tent city, causing the canvases to flap in the creatures wake. Then, as the monster reached the river, it tilted upward and rose higher into the air. As it ascended, the tips of its wings and the end of its tail barely raised enough to avoid striking the stone walls of the city. In fact, so close did they come to the battlements that they delicately brushed two inches of snow from the stone.

The red leviathan rose over the city rooftops, until it was level with the palace tower. It gave another cry as it banked right, and began circling the palace, bellowing all the while. From the mountain side behind the city came an answering chorus of roars, a returned greeting. A powerful gust of wind cause Keldaf to sway as, with a final turn and powerful back wing, Odahviing, greatest of living dragons, landed on the palace roof.

Taloned feet dug into stone and a large wing wrapped around the tower, as the dragon raised its head to the level of the balcony. Great yellow, slitted eyes flashed as the beast greeted the king. "Drem yol lok, Brojun do Hiimsejun. The sky weeps, such krosis, such sorrow, I have seen these days. Kaag sosin Fahliil. They burn all the lein with their Lu, their magic."

"What have you seen, old friend?" Keldaf's voice was heavy. His heart bled as he awaited news of even more tragedy upon his lands.

"Cyrodil and Hammerfell are but kii, ash. Highrock lies a gal before the sea, ravaged by mage sent storms. Morrowind is deserted, the Vulfahill gone, while blizzards cover the land. The Blackmarsh is dying. The Geingolslen, the Hist, are diseased, corrupted by some plague of Thalmor device. The Faareyth, the Valenwood, is desolate; its great trees gone to feed the elves' war machine. Elsweyr is a land of aar, slaves, of all races, men and mer alike. Only Alinor is untouched, a paradise to hide the sickness within." The dragon spat the last sentence, feat remarkable in a creature that did not possess lips.

"Tell me, Snow-Wing-Hunter, have they revealed that true allegiance yet? Have the Thalmor finally forsaken their pretense of divine will?"

"Not yet, Faar Jun, but the façade is thin. The Deyra Kulaan speak, and the Thalmor listen. And when the Thalmor command, Alinor obeys. Auri-el does not rule in the Dominion. It is Molag-Bal who demands conquest and sacrifice, and the Fahliil march to appease his hunger."

"It is as I feared then. Go, Odahviing, fill your belly and rest your wings. I must speak to the council. If I have need, I will call." Shoulders burdened with worry and fear, the old king opened the balcony door and enters the palace. Odahviing snorted and took off, winging his way north to where the last of his kin crawled on the mountain side.

It was nearly an hour later before the king entered the Great Hall of the palace; old bones do not make traversing the stone stairs from the tower top easy. When Keldaf arrived in the long chamber, he found it full of people; people whose presence, in ordinary circumstances, would have warranted a feast. But these were not ordinary times, and neither would a feast be tactful, even if they had the stores to provide one. Along the wall stood personages of importance from across Skyrim, representing the factions of those who did not play at Hold politics, but oversaw matters ranging beyond a Jarl's borders and understanding, or were those who only recently took a position of interest in affairs in the Crown of the World.

But these were not the only folk in the Hall. A long table ran nearly the length of the room, from the oak front doors to the stone throne at the opposing end. About it sat eight children, at least to Keldaf's old eyes, from a boy no more than ten, to a young lady and young man, both in their late teens. These children sat at the table because their fathers, their mothers, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and older siblings, were all either dead or soon would be. _Another legacy of the Thalmor, that these children are the Jarls of Skyrim_ , thought Keldaf to himself.

With a groan of protesting joints, Keldaf climbed the steps to his throne and sat himself wearily. To either side of the stone chair, upon which Ysgrammor himself once sat, stood two young men. On the kings's right stood a man in armor of glittering stalhrim; a great axe, also of the never-melting ice, rested on his back.

His hair was dark red, like dried blood, and his eyes were a stormy gray, like the king's. This was Korvan, elder son to Keldaf, and heir to his crown. He led the king's army, ever at its head, when they sallied forth to do battle with the Witch-Elves of Alinor. Brash, arrogant, sure in the knowledge of his prowess in battle and the love of his father. He allowed himself only one weakness: his younger brother, Höder, was ever the most cherished by both his father and his brother.

Höder stood to his father's left, himself clad in armor, though his raiment was of ordinary steel plate. He had armed himself with a longsword of Skyforged Steel. The sword was one of the last such in existence, for Whiterun and the Skyforge had fallen to the Thalmor three summers past. Höder was himself a quiet and contemplative man, wise beyond his 26 years. He favored quiet discourse before the call of battle, but his skill with blade and bow outmatched even his brother's, though he lacked Korvan's sheer strength and battle-lust; the fury of combat touched the young man only lightly. His eyes were the blue-green of the Sea of Ghosts in summer, and his beard and hair were a dark blonde, tied into a single braid.

Keldaf leaned forward, hands on his tired knees. "What do you have to report, Gojun?" he asked of his steward, who stood in a corner.

The steward, a stooped man older than the king, shuffled forward. "My lord, another 300 refugees arrived among the tents this week. They came down the Yorgrim, out of the west. I believe they hail from Solitude, by way of Dawnstar. My king, it is to my sorrow to inform you and this assemblage, that both Jarl Jörgun and Jarl Danith are dead, their heads mounted before their cities." At the table, two of the children, a red-haired boy of 12 and a raven-haired girl of 15, gasped. The girl began to cry, while silent tears ran down the blank face of the boy, who started with empty eyes. The steward continued. "Most of these most recent arrivals were priests from the Temple of the Divines. They fled Solitude as the Thalmor set fire to the Temple. According to my source in the camps, the Thalmor had been threatening to level the Temple for over a year now, likely hoping to break the city's spine and lure the Hold's pockets of resistance out of hiding. It seems that the occupation forces coincided the burning of the Temple with the public execution of Jarl Danith." The ancient Nord turned to the table. "You have my condolences, Lady Jarl Senta."

Keldaf growled. "I thought the Gold-Skins would keep the Jarl alive, as insurance for the good behavior of his people. To decide to kill him, they must mean to set an example. Could that be why they also executed Jörgun?"

"I believe so, yes sire, though it is also possible that the former Jarl of Dawnstar was fomenting opposition to the Dominion's occupation of the Pale. Jörgun's family was ever known to be stubborn."

Keldaf sighed and looked at the young, newly appointed, Jarl Borsun. "My sympathies, Jarl Borsun, but now is not the time for mourning." He looked back to the steward. "What does that bring the count to, Gojun?"

"We now have some 10,687 refugees camped throughout the Hold. Sire, I must add that, though Riften is sending all the provisions it can, we only have the enough stores for about two or three more months. On one third rations, sire. And with so large a civilian population, we do not have the troops to protect it. Our standing force is only three thousand strong, sir."

"Not so!" came a shout from the Hall. A man in burnished steel armor, a closed faced helm under his arm, and an Imperial gladius at his hip stepped forward and knelt before the throne. "I have a thousand legionnaires camped a day's ride to the southeast, just above Stone Creek Cave. They are at your service, King Keldaf."

Keldaf studied the Legion Captain. "Who are you, soldier?"

"Your majesty, I am Captain Lucius Turalis, of the 6th Cheydenal Legion. The Count ordered my regiment up to Bruma when the Aldemeri Dominion invaded. When Bruma fell, we were cut off from the southern roads. That forced us to go north, into Skyrim. We were assisting the fortification of the Whiterun when news of the Imperial City reached us, sir. I lost a lot of close friends that day. Now, we are all that's left, sire. Of over nine legions, five thousand strong each, now we are but a bare thousand. Let us serve you, my liege. Let us avenge our fallen brothers."

"You may get that chance, Captain, though we will likely die with it. Four thousand cannot stand against the Dominion's hundreds of thousands."

A coarse laugh began to echo in the Hall. Keldaf and his sons stared at a hulking figure leaning against the wall, near the great doors. The figure stood his six foot frame almost grotesque with heavy muscle. His green scaled armor gleamed in the torchlight. On his back was a massive weapon, a hammer it seemed. The man grinned, a frightening expression on a face with a savagely fanged under bite. The orc was still chuckling as he turned to the king. "I can offer you nearly two thousand more warriors, oh king, and they will each be worth at least three of your own men. Aye, we can kill these elves for you, and likely have more fun than any of you soft skinned weaklings. Hah!"

Keldaf pursed his lips and leaned his head against the knuckles of his raised hand. "I have never known you, Dumaz, to be a braggart and a liar. How can you claimed to offer me so many warrior? Gojun has told me that there are less than 600 orcs in all of the camps. Where will you find these fighters for me?"

Dumaz was still grinning, though it now looked more like a feral beast baring its fangs. "I have the majority of my people holed up in Morvunskar. It is large enough to hold us. Those two thousand are the all folk of fighting age still alive." The grin became a grimace as a look of sorrow flashed across Dumaz's face. "Once, orsimer strongholds dotted Tamriel, and our city of Orsinium was a monument to the strength and glory of our race. Now, there are only around three thousand of us left. Our two remaining strongholds, Narzulbur and Lorgashbur, are emptied; their people and everything that can be carried have been moved to the ruins. When I give the call, every man, woman, and child that can hold a weapon will march forth to slaughter our enemies." The grimace returned to a savage smile. "We will go to our end singing, and bathe in the blood of the Thalmor as we die."

The great orc began laughing. Reaching over his shoulder, Dumaz drew forth the massive scaled and spiked hammer. Slamming it to the ground, cracking the flagstones in the process, he knelt on one knee. "I swear by this Hammer of Malcanth, Volandrung, and as the High Chieftain of the Orsimer, that my people and I will assist in the defense of those who cannot fight for themselves."

The unexpected pronouncement of the orc sent a storm of murmurs through the assembled guests. "If a legion bureaucrat and an orc savage can offer support against the Thalmor, then so can I!" A tall, heavily muscled man stepped forward. His skin was a dusky brown, but he lacked the broad facial features typical of Redguards; he seemed of mixed blood, likely of Breton stock. He wore heavily quilted armor, and a sword of inestimable beauty hung at his side. It seemed wrought of gold, and the circle guard hilt shone like the sun at midday. "We of the Dawnguard number 200 strong, with thirty armored trolls at our command. By Stendarr, Arkay, and Meridia, we will help fight the Thalmor. Theirs is an unholy quest for world destruction, and I see the machination of the Darker Princes of Oblivion behind them. With the blessings of Arkay and Stendarr, the Danwguard hold favor with Meridia, Lady of Light, in our mission to eradicate undead and other such abominations from the world. The Dominion sends forth hordes of Dremora and Atronachs to pave the way before their own armies. My men and I will stand against the spawn of Molag-Bal beside you, this I swear on my sword, Dawnbreaker."

The whispers intensified; the stewards of the child Jarls, standing behind the chairs of their lords and ladies, looked astonished. Was the problem so dire that the neutral parties and organizations would intercede? The question seemed answered as three more people stepped forward, two from the crowd, the third from an alcove in the corner. All three were recognizable, but it was the third that ruly shocked the spectators. What was a Nightingale doing here?

The first was a man in hide armor, stitched from many pelts to almost seem a dragon's head on the front. In his hand was a monstrous great axe, depictions of screaming elves across the entirety of the double bladed head. On his arm was an ancient iron round shield, intricately etched into the face of a dragon. The man himself stood nearly 7 feet tall, broad as a house, and heavy with muscle. "The Companions stand with you, my king." The voice of Harbinger Turraf was deep. It almost seemed to have an echo of a howl in it. "We are the arbiters of justice, and the finest warriors in Skyrim. Let us prove that justice. We only number 20, but none may match us in battle."

The second man was an imperial, of average height and build. He wore armor that was a mix of narrow crossing lames and solid pieces of plate. His sword was long and slender, slightly curved with a small guard. While the armor was unrecognizable to many, none could mistake that sword for anything but an Akaviri katana. "I am Octavias Juranus, Grandmaster of the Blades. The Thalmor have been hunting and decimating our numbers for four hundred years. Now, only thirty of us remain. Allow us our vengeance and the chance to serve the Dragon's Blood, as our ancestors have in ages past." With that, the Blade knelt on both knees and bowed from the waist before Keldaf.

The king looked from Blade to Harbinger, then back again. "I welcome all who would offer aid, for though it is ultimately futile, I will not simply lie down for the Thalmor to step on my neck as they slaughter my people. Not when I can at least make an effort to defend the helpless from wholesale death. But what of you, Agent of Nocturnal? Why do you stand forth? Have you something to offer?"

The final figure was silent for several seconds, wrapped in the leathers, cowl, and cloak of a Nightingale. When it did speak, it did so in the dry cadences of a Khajit. "This one is Rrhazsh, and Rrhazsh tells you now: Nocturnal is dead. She died alongside her sisters, fighting Molag-Bal and his allies, Mehrunes Dagon and Hermaeus Mora. But before they died, my mistress and her sisters, along with Malacath, invested those artifacts of theirs with the last of their power. We Nightingales are the Mistress of Shadows' living instruments, through our service as Agents and the gifts of our equipment. The Thieves guild has called us to lead them, and the last members of the Dark Brotherhood, destroyed by Thalmor Justicars, have been absorbed into our ranks. The guild asks to serve however it may, and brings gifts to the king of snow-land."

From some hidden pocket in the obviously enchanted cloak, the khajit thief brought forth two objects that should have been too large to be hidden. One was a shield of pale moonstone, beautifully carved in intricate ridges and curves. The second was a bow, also of moonstone, of surpassing loveliness. One of the assembly, an Altmer priest of Dibella, judging by her amulet, gasped. "The Bow and Shield of Auriel! But the Thalmor claimed those when they conquered Solitude. How did you come by them, Agent?"

The Nightingale purred. "They should have better locks on their doors."

The High King chuckled. "We thank you Rrhazsh, for these gifts, as well as the service provided by removing them from Thalmor hands. I believe the Guild may indeed be of use." His expression grew dim. "We also thank you for informing this assembly of the deaths of the Daedric Princes who held highest regard amongst mortals. We all suffer their loss." He turned his gaze to the assembly at large. "Are there any others who would speak?"

Silence reigned for several second before two figures from the farthest corner of the Hall. One was cloaked and deeply hooded; the other was clearly a Dark Elf, richly adorned in ornate crimson robes. The Dark Elf spoke first. "I am Tiradoth Telvanni, last scion of House Telvanni, and off all the Great Houses of Morrowind. I bring the last of my people from Solstheim and Morrowind, as well as 300 House Guards. They are at your service. I also present you with the most sacred treasure I have: the Star of Azura, most radiant of the True Tribunal." The Dunmer drew a large metal wrapped crystal jewel. It was shaped lake a sun or a many armed star, spires of crystal spiraling out from it. Keldaf knew what it was; the Artifact of Azura, an indestructible, re-usable soul gem. Valuable indeed.

The hooded figure stepped forward, lowering its hood as it did. The entire room stiffened. It was a female Altmer, a High Elf, and her robes were black edged with gold. A Justicar. In heartbeats, weapons were drawn, and the she-elf was ringed in steel. However, she simply stood still, ignoring the metal death pointed at her, and stared at Keldaf.

"I am Alaniwen. For decades, I served as a Justicar of Alinor, meeting out the justice of the Dominion. I upheld its laws, safeguarded its people. Until three years ago, when the Thalmor came to my home. They arrested my husband, and took custody of my son. My family was tortured for two weeks before being publically executed. All for the crime of mixed blood. My husband had a great, great randfather who was a Breton of High Rock. My love and my child were slaughtered by my own people, simply for not being of pure blood." She spat to the side. "I hate the Thalmor with my entire soul. They have poisoned my home, my people, and this world with their hate and their pride. I abandoned the Dominion the day my family died, and took with me all those who had suffered the same wounds of the heart. Men, women, children, soldiers, craftsmen, mages. Nearly two thousand of those refugees at your gates are from Alinor and Valenwood. 200 willing blades stand at your call King of Skyrim." And to shock of the Hall, the former Justicar prostrated herself before the king.

The king sat silent, gazing at the prostate Altmer. Then he turned to his steward, one eyebrow raised in silent question. Gojun quickly scanned the blot board in his hands, notes piled high upon it. After studying the papers intently, mouth moving silently, Gojun looked back to his king. "That brings our forces to 6,750, sire. Enough to give the Thalmor a good fight, certainly. But our people will still die in the end. There is nowhere for us to retreat to, and the Thalmor number beyond counting. I'm sorry, sire."

Another guest stepped forward. This one was an Altmer as well, but he wore the feathered mantle of the Archmage of Winterhold. He carried a staff topped with a crystal sphere, swirling blue-green mist within. "Then let us flee, my lords."

The assembly rang with shouts of mixed reaction. The clamor was so great; the king had to clang the head of his axe against stone of his throne to call for silence. Keldaf turned his gray eyes the Altmer. "That is an excellent suggestion, my lord Archmage. But, pray tell, to where shall we flee? Morrowind? High Rock? Cyrodil? The lands all about us are ravaged; conquered, despoiled, and destroyed by the Dominion. Akavir? Lost Atmora, may haps? I have not enough ships to ferry even the three thousand citizens of this city, let alone the ten thousand souls before my gates. And even if I did possess the ships for such a voyage, the Thalmor have ships of their own patrolling the Sea of Ghosts. An evacuation fleet would not survive to reach Solstheim, let alone a continent beyond our horizons. Where then, I ask of you, may we go Archmage?" The king's tone was harsh with both derision and resignation.

"What I suggest, oh High King is not that we flee these lands." The Archmage's own voice was calm and collected, without a hint of emotion. "What I suggest, is that we flee this world."


	2. Chapter 2

i do not own skyrim or LoTR. all original characters are mine

Chapter 2

The high king stared at the archmage for along moment, in which silence reigned in the hall. Then clamor erupted as the assembly of the hall began to roar their disfavor of the elf's suggestion. "Leave this world?" "Where will we go?" "Would damn us all to Oblivion?" The archmage simply stood in silence; his face composed, and let the rage wash over him like a wave upon the beaches of the Pale.

The steward of Falkreath stood from his seat behind the young Jarl of that hold. "Are you mad, Archmage? Would you see us all dead in planes of Oblivion? I will not trade years of slow death on a Thalmor's torture rack for an eternity in the tender embraces of Molag-Bal. Or were you of a mind to send us to Aetherius? I am as eager to walk the valley of Sovngard as the next nord, but I still love this life too much to relinquish it now for the hallowed halls of the valorous dead."

This statement was met with great accord, as others in the hall of the Palace of Kings began shaking their fists and shouting at the high elf in the garb of the College of Winterhold. The clamor became so great, that the king was forced to bang the head of his quicksilver axe once again on the stone of his throne, shouting for quiet as he did. But the shouting continued, even growing in intensity and vehemence. Keldaf drew in his breath, and this time, when he called for silence, he invested something more than just words in his voice. The bloodline of the Dragonborn rang true within in him, and here he shared that truth with the entire hall. The booming echo of his voice rang out though the entire keep, rattling the windows and doors. Dust and splinters of wood fell from rafters, while pebbles and slivers of rock shook themselves free of the stones of the palace's floors and walls. "I WILL HAVE SILENCE." In less than a heartbeat, not just the hall but entire castle fell to quiet, fearful awaiting the voiced wrath of king of the dragon's blood.

Keldaf drew another deep breath, and the assembly held theirs in anticipation for second example of the Thuum of the royal house. But the king only sighed and glared at his entire court. "None of you have had a single alternative for our survival to share, save the Archmage. I would hear him speak and explain his statement." Now the old man focused the full force of his kingly stare at the High Elf at the end of the hall. "Please share your reasoning, Nutholmar."

The Archamge returned the king's look for several seconds, before sweeping the hall with his golden eyes. "My scholars in the College, my cosmologists, have made it their lives' work to study the workings of our universe, of its points of interests, its celestial bodies, and its various planes. They found that their certainly worlds beyond our own, other than the realms of gods and daedra. Some can support life; others would appear to be barren, in what manner we do not know."

One of the priests stood forth. "How can you possible tell if a world is livable or barren, but not tell in what manner? What does that even mean, my lord Archmage?"

Nutholmar tilted his head and looked at the ceiling, his face thoughtful. "It's a complicated spell. We send out a 'pulse' of magic, if you will, at a world in the heavens. When it returns to us, like the returning waves bouncing off the shore of pond, we study the results. These results tell us if a world can support life, or is as barren as the Dead Lands of Mehrunes Dagon. But the spell cannot tell the nature of the world beyond those specifics." He looked back up at the king. "I am proposing that we flee this world for one those out in the vastness of the universe. I cannot guarantee it will be a safe world, or comfortable one. But I ask you: if you had to choose between accepting a certain fate of death for you and those in your charge, and a throw of the bones for a chance that they might be able to live somewhere else, what would you do?"

The High King sat on his throne, eyes distant as he thought. He looked at the children at his table, their shoulders heavy in grief and burdens beyond their years, and then to his own two sons at his sides. The hall stood with bated breath, waiting for the king's answer. Finally, Keldaf straightened in his seat, and looked the Archmage square in the eye. "Very well, Nutholmar, what will you need?"

The wind was howling off the mouth of the White River, just northeast of Windhelm, and frost was forming thick in Keldaf's beard. He was standing on rise of Traitor's Post, at the western end of the Dunmeth Pass, looking out over the eastern-most piece of land to belong to Winterhold Hold. As he watched, hundreds of laborers from the refugee camps were hauling stone blocks from the nearby Yngol Barrow. Already, a structure of great arches and pedestals was taking shape on the ground, and still more men struggled to heave the heavy stonework into place, all at the commanding direction of several mages in observance. Keldaf was too distant to hear the voices of the work crews over the roar of the wind, but he been to the construction site already, and he knew the mages' obsessive need to exacting detail in their works.

He turned back to Nutholmar, who was standing next him and a couple other members of the High King's court. "Are you sure of your requirements, Archmage?"

Nutholmar nodded, his eyes on the construction. "Yes, my lord. We will need an archway of sufficient size to form the boundary of the portal we must conjure. If it were possible, I would simply use an arch already in existence, such as those found at the Labyrinthian. However, those lands are still contested and thick with Dominion soldiers. It would unwise to try to evacuate our people through a portal in such dangerous territory. As such, we must construct an arch. We are lucky that the barrow is so close to this location. It is large and open enough to build an arch of suitable size for our purposes. And the stones from the barrow have been embowed with ancient magic from its occupants and original purpose. They will serve well to build the arch."

On the king's other side, a man in heavy armor of steel and quicksilver plates, intricately carved in the imagery of hears, sowed to thick leather and fur, coughed. "What are the pedestals for then?" asked Garrvick, general of Skyrim's armies.

Nutholmar, pointed to the west, to wagon loads of crates, chests, and barrels. "We have brought with us several objects of power, which must be used to open the portal and help maintain it. My mages can cast the spells, and direct the portal to open where we want it, but without enough power to rend the fabric of reality, we are just gesturing at the air until the Thalmor come to kill us, for all the good it would do. We need objects of great power to supply the energies we need to open the portal. The pedestals are arrayed and built to channel those energies into the archway, to power the portal."

The fourth member of the group looked aside to the Altmer. He was tall, and broad shouldered, but he wore a beard the gray of a stormy sky, and it hung to his waist. His robes covered him from head to foot, and a gray hood shadowed his face. In his hand was an iron gray staff, its head a curved dragon. "What objects of power where you intending to use, Nutholmar?" asked Weirgnayr, leader of the Graybeards.

Nutholmar's face became grave. "Before the Imperial City fell, several Moth priests fled to Skyrim ahead of the Dominion's forces. They carried with them three Elder Scrolls."

Weirgnayr spluttered, his eyes wide. "Elder Scrolls!? You would use Elder Scrolls? Unleash the very forces of creation?"

"Yes, my friend, I must. They are the only objects within our possession that can serve to open the portal. Is that not what they have done before? Cast Alduin himself through time? Open the doors between Nirn and Oblivion?"

"But what of the Daedric Artifacts? Surely they can produce the power needed. The toys of the Princes of Oblivion have passes back and forth between the mortal and immortal planes since time out of mind."

Nutholmar shook his head. "If I had access to enough of them, then maybe I could. But only the items of Azura, Malacath, Hircine, Meridia, and Nocturnal are available to us, and I would not deprive their far more practical uses from us, when it would not be enough regardless. By using these Elder Scrolls, we can open the gateway, and by draining them of their power, we will deprive the Thalmor of their use."

Weirgnayr seems to deflate, his face horrified. To use the Elder Scrolls in such a way was to court catastrophe. Yet the Archmage had a point. They lacked enough of the great Daedric Artifacts to make use of them, and the Elder Scrolls were far too dangerous to leave in the hands of the Aldmeri Dominion. He sighed. If it must be so, then let it be so. He raised his head. "There is something more you wanted to say; else you would not have called me here."

Nutholmar nodded. "Yes, Weirgnayr, there is. The portal will be unstable, regardless how many mages I have pouring magicka into strengthening it. I believe that we need older, more forceful powers to maintain the stability of the gateway; else we risk it imploding on us and killing the entire northwestern portion of Tamriel with it. I need your Greybeards, and the dragons, to shout at the portal, once it is open. Shouts have enormous ancient power in them, and we will need every breath that you and your friends can take in order to portal to stay up."

Weirgnayr look down at the slowly rising arch, eyes distant. "Very well, I will speak with my brothers. We shall do what we can to lend our aid, but I fear that the Dov will only heed the command of his Majesty. He is their thuri, their overlord, and they will obey his orders."

Keldaf nodded. "Yes, I will call Odahviing. The dragons will lend their lovaas, their voices, to the endeavor." He turned and began walking back down the beach head, to the long shore boat waiting to ferry him across the bay to the city docks. Thought danced wildly through his head; lists of supplies for the horses, jumbling with the roster of priests from the temples across Skyrim, mixing with manifests of Soul gems to be crated up for traveling, jarring with orders for troops to pull back from the forts at Fellglow Keep, Fort Fellhammer, and the defenses at Haemar's shame. He had already issued orders for the fort commanders to withdraw their forward defenses from Silverdrift Lair, Korvanjund, Graywinter Watch, and Yngvild, where his armies held the line against the Dominion's forces. Keldaf hoped that pulling back his troops now would not prove itself to be a horrible miscalculation of the Thalmor's positions, but he need those men closer to home, if he hoped to be able to move them quickly through the portal when the time came, not scattered all over the eastern half of Skyrim.

Keldaf growled under his breath. It took time for his mandates to travel from Windhelm to the forward positions, especially by courier in the late autum, just as the winter snows were beginning to set in. He was counting on the onset of winter weather to slow down the Dominion's advance, as they moved their forces out of the more temperate holds of Falkreath and the Reach. His greater concern was that the Aldmeri Legions in Falkreath would attempt to push through the valley of the White River, the shortest route into the Eastmarch, and set upon the refugees camped about the hot springs and steam vents, where they huddled for warmth. He was certain that the Thalmor would avoid taking the northern road to Lake Yorgrim, for the snows and cold turned that path dangerous in winter, prone to avalanches of snow and rock. They would come by sea, for the Elves had no true sea skills to navigate the ice flows so close to shore as to creep along the coast to the mouth of the White River. And the mountain path, south of the Throat of the World, into the Rift, was far too narrow to lead an army down. Still, how he wished for one of the dragons to take his missives out for him. But he would never demean a great dragon by asking that it act as a simple messenger for him.

As he reached the shore, he looked southwards, up the hill, where civilians were already beginning to relocate, to closer to the shared hope of escape from the Dominion. Wagons and carts, filled to overflowing with crates, barrels, bags, and chests, were being parked in masse at the Hlaalu and Hollyfrost farms, and the great bridge out of Windhelm was choked with more wagons and carts, as supplies, such as food and lumber, clothing and armor, weapons and potions, tools and livestock, were being funneled out of the city to main staging area. Another depot was already building up on the northern shore of the river mouth, as more supplies were arriving from Winterhold and the College. The goods from the college were especially important; the chests and crates were filled with valuable soul gems, magical jewelry, and enchanted clothing, as well as crafting tables for alchemy and enchantment. They would need all the magic they could carry once they left for this new world, to face its unknown dangers and traps.

Other boxes held heaps of books and scrolls, not all of them spelled. The Archmage hoped to preserve as much of the History of their world as he could, for he knew that the Thalmor would burn all of creation to the ground if it meant a return to divinity, regardless of the knowledge lost. And without those books of magic, how could new mages be trained and taught?

Riften had contributed its resources as well, sending barges of lumber, quarried stone and mud bricks, and stacked piles of dried and tanned animal skins from its woodlands. The large quantities of bear, saber cat, and deer pelts would be welcome in attempts to stave off the winter's chill. The lumber, stone, and brick would be useful, once they population was through the portal, to construct a settlement, but the pelts could be used now to warm the young and elderly amongst the refugees.

Two more vast shipments were being prepared still, both of important supplies, though the procurement of these items had begun long before the Dominion struck at Skyrim. Years past, when King Keldaf had first felt the stirrings of invasion on the horizon, he had sent out soldiers to the great tombs and ruins that dotted his kingdom. Whole companies dived into the ancient dungeons, crawling with the restless undead, and returned with cart loads of ancient weapon and armor. Though the tools of the draugr were worn and old, they were still of excellent quality and practical use. Soon, the armories of Riften, Windhlem, and Winterhold were filled with ancient Nordic swords, axes, bows, and arrows, while ancient pieces of strong armor were set in storage, alongside weapons and armor from all over Tamriel; elven, glass, ebony, Nordic, orcish, dwarven, stalhrim, bonemold, all contributed to arms buildup. And now those very arms and armor were being packed into crates and chests, loaded into wagons, and sent trundling down the roads to the supply depots near Yngol Barrow.

But one more shipment was still coming in. Tons of ore, from iron and corundum, to ebony and orichalcum, to moonstone and malachite, to quicksilver and stalhrim, all that could be scavenged from store rooms, picked from surface veins, or stripped from mines, was being accumulated. Nor was gold and silver neglected for more practical metals. Gold, silver, and gems had been hoarded for years, saved within the vaults of the Riften and Windhelm. One never knew if they might need raw precious metals for trade. The vast quanties still being loaded onto wagons and barges in the Rift and Winterhold hold, to be sent over roads, river, and coastline to the construction site.

With such a large store of supplies, the majority of the horses and cattle would need to be harnessed to the logistical freight wagons, instead of the carriages that would be carrying the civilians. But Keldaf already had a plan. He would order the troops he was pulling from the front to pull the far lighter loads of people, rather than the greater tons of freight. He would see his people safely through that portal, and with all the supplies, food, and protection that they would need.

As the long shore boat pulled up to the docks below the walls of his city, Keldaf wondered what his sons were up to in their own preparations.

Hödir was ready to kill someone, in such a way as to leave him a mangled stain on the ground before the doors of Candlehearth Hall; especially if that someone was the head of the guard detachment in charge of organizing the crating of foodstuffs from that same establishment. And most especially if that guard captain was currently drunk and leaning against the walls of the tavern in a profound stupor. The prince was trying to maintain an orderly procession of duties and he worked to gather all the supplies and goods from within the city for shipment to the depots. But it seemed the guard he had tasked to procure the pantries full of dried meats, breads, and vegetables, had seen fit to instead help himself to the inn's rather hefty stores of mead.

Now the guard captain was the next thing to passed out while at his post, his command was currently drinking its fill within the tavern, and the goods and supplies of Candlehearth Inn were still unpacked and nowhere near prepared for travel. Hödir drew his palm down across his face in frustration, struggled to reign in his flaring temper, and then decided to solve his problem in the fashion traditional to his nord race: his threw a powerful right hook to the captain's jaw, which finished what the mead had begun, and step over the unconscious body into the inn.

"What in the name of Oblivion is going on here?! Why are these supplies doing unloaded?" The princes voice rang with the restrained power of his Thuum, and every guard in the room proceed to fall out of his chair in alarm. "This is disgraceful! You are soldiers of Skyrim, not miners in from the mountains. Now act like it and get these supplies loaded, or so help me, I'll see the lot of you strung up and lashed for negligence!"

Immediately, the 5 men in uniform scrambled from the embarrassing drunken sprawl they had landed in, and hurry into the cellar and store room behind the bar to begin packing the preserved food. Hödir shook his head in disgust. A laugh sounded from the doorway behind him, causing the prince to turn about. His brother, Korvan, was standing in there, doubled over in a rich belly laugh. "Lighten up, brother mine; they were only helping to lessen the loads that we must carry."

Hödir scowled. He loved his elder brother, but the red haired warrior preferred to think with his axe arm, or stomach, rather than his head. And while this made him a monster on the battlefield, and well liked amongst the soldiers, it failed to lend itself to organizing an evacuation with any significant success. Then he sighed, and met his brother's gray eyes. "They are guards, warriors of Windhelm and soldiers of Skyrim. It is their duty to uphold the honor of this city and its people, not drink themselves into the gutter when the Thalmor may descend upon us at any time. We must complete the clearing of the city, every crumb of food, every drop of mead, every shard of glass or pebble of stone, must be packed away, loaded up, and taken to the farms for transport. The portal will soon be ready, and so must we, if our people are to flee from certain destruction."

Korvan turned his head and spat into a nearby fire-pit. "Fah, why we should run? What have we to fear from the gold-skins? I would take my army and march on Whiterun to burn them out and retake our city. But father forbids me this glory, and has my men and I work as clerks, waggoneers, and common loaders, instead of slaughtering the elves like the dogs they are."

Hödir closed his eyes and raised his head to the

sky. A fine mist of rain had begun, and he could feel the drops hitting his face, wetting his hair and short beard. _Why must he continue to act the barbarian fool? Can he not see the odds, the forces against us? His "army" stands five hundred strong, and yet he thinks that those numbers would be sufficient to face the Dominion's hundreds of thousands? On the open plains of Whiterun Hold?_ Hödir opened his eyes and lowered his gaze to his older brother. "Father forbids you and your personal arms-men from attacking, because he needs you here. He is already wanting to pull our forces back from the front, so that we can all escape through the portal once it has opened, not strung out across half of Skyrim. If you strike out on your own, like a bullheaded fool, you risk all our lives for the sake of leading your men on a suicide run."

Korvan sneered at his golden haired sibling. "You are a coward, Hödir. We are Nords, sons of the snow, warriors from the cradle. Each of my men is worth a hundred of the Dominion's weaklings, and we are unafraid. We should be taking the fight to the witch-elves, not hiding here in the east, hoping to flee through some magic door in the sky. That is your way, the Imperial way. A coward's way. Father was fool to send you to Solitude all those years ago, to study with the bards. The tongue arts have made you weak, soft. Where is your honor, your courage?"

Hödir step forward, til his face was but inches from his brother's. "You are a fool and an idiot, Korvan. You say your housecarls are worth a hundred elves apiece? That may be true, but the Dominion doesn't have five thousand men for you to fight. They have hundreds of thousands. They would wash over you like the sea, and leave nothing behind. That is why we flee. It is not cowardice. It is survival. Survival for our people, for all the people who have suffered at the hands of the Thalmor. Father needs you here, with your men, so that we may be able to defend the weak, the young, the elderly, the women, once we go through the portal. We don't know what will be beyond it, if it will be worse, or better than what we face here. But we do know that if we stay, if we fight, when there is no chance of survival, then not only our armies, our soldiers, will die, but so will those defenseless people outside those walls." Hödir jabbed his finger at the great gate behind his brother. "Where will be your honor then, brother? Where will it be when all that your fight for lies in ruins behind your still corpse? What will it matter to Shor in his hall that you fought oh so ferociously, when the very reason your fight is dead? I know where my honor lays, Korvan. It lies in my duty, duty to our people, to our father. It lies in defending those refugees, til my last breath even, so long as they survive. It lies in obeying my king, following his commands to the fullest that I may. If I die in my duty, for my people and my king, then so be it. I will walk to the Whalebone Bridge and face Tsun with my head high and my honor intact, and I will accept his judgement whatever it may be."

Korvan stared back into his brother's eyes for several long seconds, their misty breath mingling in the chilly air, before turning away with a scowl. "Do what you will, Hödir. I will follow our father's commands, and remain within the city. But know that this is craven cowardice, and I will not be part of it beyond what the king demands. My men and I will have nothing to do with the evacuation, for I believe it foolishness. Instead, we will amuse ourselves with the delights of the women in the camp, and mead in my hall. Fah." With that, Korvan again spat into the fire-pit as he stalked off down the street.

Hödir stared after his brother, watching him tramp his way through the autumn slush that filled the low places of the city. It was only after Korvan had vanished around a corner that he finally relaxed the white knuckled grip he had on his sword hilt. Hödir blinked in surprise; he had not even realized that his hand had strayed to the weapon. That worried him. Hödir loved his brother, and knew that one of his personal reasons for seeking to keep Korvan in Windhelm, was because he did not wish to lose his sibling in a suicidal attack against a superior Thalmor position. Korvan was mulish at times, to be sure, yet he was also loyal to a fault, savage in battle, and gentle with many who could not defend themselves. Korvan saw it as his ultimate duty to defend his people and his father against all threats. At the moment, the trouble lay with restraints that had been placed upon the red haired warrior. He hated to be confined, to be denied the action, the opportunity to do something. It was his frustration that was speaking out in anger, not true contempt.

"Well, that was certainly entertaining. But then, brotherly spats usually are."

Hödir spun about. He knew that condescending tone, though he had not heard it in years. Not since he was last in Solitude, finishing his education in the Bard's College. Not since…. "Guinen." He said in a tone of force politeness. Stepping down from the alley way that led to the Gray Quarter, was a young woman, of age with himself. Her skin was a darkened tan, nearly the color of caramel. Her hair was long, to the middle of her back, and a lustrous black. Her nose was straight, proud, but not overly prominent. Her eyes were a hard dark brown, her mouth an inviting pout. She wore a long skirt and vest tunic of animal hide and furs. Despite her attire, she seemed as little perturbed by the cold as Hödir himself.

Hödir squared his shoulders as he fully faced her, and then stiffly bowed at the waist, hand over his heart. "My lady. How may I be of assistance?"

There was a tense pause, then Guinen Gold-Tongue, Lady of Hag's End, Mistress of the Deepwood Redoubt, Chieftain of the Reacher Tribes, Uncrowned Queen of the Reach, gave a tinkling laugh. "My, aren't you polite today, Hödir Dragonsblood. Why such formality? Surely we are too familiar for that." She sauntered closer and began to circle the prince, drawing a long, slender finger along his shouler. "Weren't those nights in Solitude sufficient to prove that? Or maybe it was the days we spent wandering the heights of Haafingar? Or the evenings of dark corners in the Blue Palace?" She came to a halt in front of him, her eyes going hard. "Or how about the insult you gave me on the very steps of the Temple?" Abruptly, she slapped Hödir across the face, jerking his head to the side and raising a line of red where her nails and scratched his cheek.

Hödir, reached up and felt at the side of his face, could feel the droplets of blood begin to swell for the scratches, as he looked at this fiery young women, a women who oncemeant, and still did, a great deal to him. "Guinen, I meant no disrespect…"

"Disrespect?! You shamed me before my people and the folk of Solitude. I gave you my heart, my soul, and you dashed it from my hands. You told me you loved me, yet you ran from me like a coward. No, no Hödir Keldafson, this goes beyond disrespect. What you did would call for blood feud and war between our peoples, if it not for the Dominion. Now I know why my people, the Forsworn, have hated Nords for centuries. Your silver tongues make many a vow, yet I have yet to seen one kept. You swore to me that you loved me, that our futures would happy, but you have brought such to me and mine that I cannot ever see why we knew such joy." Tears were now rolling down her face, even as the anger and contempt continued to rise in her voice. "Thou art a bastard, Prince of Skyrim."

Hödir looked at her in silence, shock running through his heart, though none of it showed on his face. "I could not stay, Guinen, though I wished to do so to all the Divines. But I had duties, responsibilities to complete. My father had called me home and I had to return to Windhelm. I did love you, I swear to you I did, and I never wished to hurt you. But my duties were in the Eastmarch, and you were your father's only daughter. You could not leave your people in the Reach any more than I could abandon the East march while Krovan led our forces to Falkreath. There was nothing I could do. And nor should it be a reason why you so wroth with me. You knew the reasons I had to leave, just as I did. Yet then, even as now, your anger is far greater than warranted. If you must hate me, then at least do me the courtesy of telling the truth of its source." Gently, Hödir reached out a hand to try and brush a tear from the cheek of the women who had once held his heart.

Furiously, Guinen, slapped the hand away, and stared up at the Nord prince with hate filled eyes. "Very well, I will tell, if you truly wished to know. That day, that summer afternoon, on the steps of the Temple, I did have cause to try so desperately to keep you with me. I wanted you stay with me in Deepwood Reboubt, or take me with you to Windhelm, I cared not which, so long as we were together. I wanted that because I had just discovered, that very morning when I woke from your bed, that I was with child. With your child."

 **Matt211993: this is not a dragonborn. its been a few hundred years since the events of skyrim. inthat time, the bloodline of the dragonborn married into the ruling house of skyrim, creating the line of dragonsblood. the family can use thuum more easily than greybeards, but they cannot absorb dragon souls, and only know a handful of shouts.**

 **kingraven1138: i only know of the one snow elf from dawn gaurd, and i am deciding whether or not to have him still alive, or not. he may serve a purpose if he is alive.**

 **ww1990ww: there will be magic. it does already exist in middlearth, just not many people use it. we hve seen galadriel, sauron, gandalf, elrond, and even aragorn use a bit of it. its just not the same as magic in tamriel. but it will be needed by the refugees. i mean come on. 15000 thousoand people against the hundreds of thousands of orcs roaming the owlrd? they will the magic to give them the surving edge.**


	3. Chapter 3

Twin mountains chapter 3

The temple's interior was dry, chilled, and, most importantly, silent. Hödir sat in that silence, chin resting on clasped hands, staring up at the statue of Talos Stormcrown. He liked coming here, not for any religious conviction, but for its deep, reverent silence. It was his favorite place to simply come, sit, and think in quiet. _I'm going to miss this place_ , he thought. _I doubt that I will ever find somewhere serene enough to just sit with my thoughts, once we leave this land._

And he needed this quiet, especially now, needed it to allow him the time and the solitude to consider his thoughts, his memories. To consider what the women, who had once meant the world to him, had said in her anger and spite. _I was with child. With your child._ Hödir felt his belly seize and his hands shake. A child. She had been carrying his child. That was why she had wanted so badly, begged so desperately, to remain with him. To travel to Windhelm and abandon her people, or for him to ignore his own father, the king, and stay with her in the Reach. She had wanted to remain with him and raise their child. He could almost hear the creaking of his teeth; his jaw was clinched so tightly. He thought to what she told him, while he was on his knees before her in shock.

" _I wanted you to stay with me in Deepwood Redoubt, or take me with you to Windhelm, I cared not which, so long as we were together. I wanted that because I had just discovered, that very morning as I woke from your bed, that I was with child. With your child."_

 _Hödir stared down into Guinen's face. "What did you say? A child?" His voice was cracked, barely more than a whisper, scarcely heard over the rising howl of the wind._

" _Yes, Hödir, a child. Our child. Born of a love that you let die for your foolish sense of duty. Now do you realize why you're spurning of me shamed me so much, why I have hated you, ignored your missives, spat on your counsels, for seven years? And now I curse you, Dragonsblood, for that shame is as much yours as it is mine."_

 _Hödir fell to his knees in the snow, his eyes never leaving the Reacher's face. "Why did you not tell of the child? Surely, if I had known, if my father had known, we would have brought the both of you here, to the palace. Why did you not tell me later?"_

 _Guinen's eyes were hard, cold, empty, and pitiless. "She died at birth. The healres said my anger and grief at you stressed the babe too much, so much so that she could endure the birthing. Let that knowledge, the knowledge that your stubbornness led to your own daughter's death." Turning on her heel, the uncrowned Queen of the Reach strode towards the great city gates, leaving a heartbroken man in her wake._

Hödir opened his eyes, blinking the memory of an hour ago away. He looked back up at the statue of the God of the Empire of Man. And felt his sense of hollow emptiness turn to raging fury and hate. Hate at the world, at his father's commands, at the gods, and his duty, at himself. Why had he not agreed to bring Guinen with him to Windhelm those years past. He had loved like she was a piece of his very being, would given his all to her, had she asked. But that day, he had receive a message from the Eastmarch. The Dominion had launched their first assault into Skyrim, invading over the Jerall Mts. into Falkreath, and Korvan had led the Army of Whiterun and the Rift to meet it at Lake Ilinalta. King Keldaf had need his younger son to help him organize the mustering of the Eastmarch, Winterhold, and the Pale to make its own march towards Whiterun to reinforce the city. He could not bring Guinen with him, away from her people, when he knew that soon enough, they would be gathering their own forces to face the Thalmor. Guinen would have been needed at her father's side, doing the exact same thing him as Hödir was doing for Keldaf.

Suddenly, he felt the chill of the wind on his neck, and could briefly hear the sounds of the city's preparations outside. "There you are, lad. Your guards lost you and came running to tell me of your disappearance before I heard of it elsewhere. I dare say I think they were quite afraid I might feed them to Odahviing." Hödir turned his head to look over his shoulder at the entrance to the Temple. His father, dressed in simple noble's robes and coat, was closing the large oak doors, strangely mindful of the silent reverence of the sanctuary.

"What do you need, Father? Have I remised something?" Hödir asked as he began to rise from the bench.

"Oh, sit down boy, I am not here to remand you for something. By Tsun, why, you have done more in the last few days than I have seen my entire clerical staff accomplish in the last several years. Bah, if only your brother was as productive, then I wouldn't have to put up with his bellyaching every day that he has to go on patrol around the city instead of hunting Thalmor in the hills."

A chuckle fought past Hödir's anger and brought a small smile to his lips. The king grinned broadly at the sight as he sat himself down next to his son. Then his expression grew concerned and leaned towards his son, hands on his knees. "Tell me lad, what ails ye? I understand you had an argument with your brother, but that's common enough, and not something to send you to this empty hall. What's troubling you?"

Hödir returned his eyes to the statue, his silence resumed. He could not bring himself to answer his father, to bring that horrible knowledge, the shame of his actions, down on the older man. How could he tell the king, who was a man of duty, both to his kingdom and his family, that he had lost a granddaughter before he had the chance to know her? That the cherished younger son, the man who followed so closely the ideals of honor and responsibility, had left behind a woman carrying the line of the royal house, to come home to a call to arms? It would kill Keldaf, break his heart and his spririt, at a moment when that iron will and mountain like resolve were most needed. And so Hödir sat in his silent contemplation, holding back his inner turmoil, and letting the guilt of his actions gnaw at him like a hound on a bone.

Keldaf eyed his son quietly, watch with the eyes of long experience as the subtle signs of great pain washed over his boy's face. Hödir was his special boy. True, Korvan was a nord warrior born, raised from the cradle to the sword and shield of the kingdom, fearless on the battlefield, inspiring to his men, a terror to his foes. But it was in Hödir that Keldaf placed his hope for the future. Korvan was a war-leader, but it was Hödir who was a king. Hödir was observant and rational, not rash and blustering like Korvan. Hödir knew how to lead in peace as well as in war, how to listen to others and yet not let those whispers dictate his every move, how to calm a mob as well as excite a crowd. Keldaf, though the implications of his feeling ate at his heart, dearly hoped that it would be Hödir who would lead their people in the future, on this other world. And now he looked at his favorite son, looked at the pain the boy was enduring in silence, and knew that now he must be a father, not a king.

"You know, I have always liked coming here, to the temple. Not because of my piety, you understand, but for its peace. It's hard to so show more on one particular god over the others, in our family." Keldaf glanced towards his son. "How someone of our line choose, when we owe so much to so many gods? We are Nords, thus our fealty should be to Shor and Kyne, patrons of our people. But we are also children of the first Empire of Man to unite Tamriel , thus we should worship Talos Stormcrown, Founder of the Septim Empire. Yet we are also of the line of the Dohvakin, son of Akatosh, so should we not pay homage to the Dragon God of Time? Fah, it's so confusing; I came to the conclusion long ago, to let the gods handle matters for gods, and I will handle matters for men. If they each want my devotion so badly, then let them fight for my soul when I die, ahahahah."

Hödir could not stop himself; a smile split his face, and a rich laugh rolled about the chamber. Keldaf grinned down at his younger son for several seconds before his own belly-full of mirth burst forth, and soon both of the men were holding their side, fighting down renewing guffaws and chuckles. It was several minutes for either of the royals could regain control of themselves.

Keldaf finally pulled himself back to the moment, wiping a tear from his eye, and smiled gently at his son. "Hödir, what is wrong? Surely it is something that can be mended? Talk to me as your father, not as your king."

Hödir looked to his parent, considering. It was rare of late to see this side of the king. Keldaf had fought tooth and nail to cre for his sons, after their mother, Queen Arlia of Morthal, had died. When they lost her to snow fever, when both of the brothers were but lads barely old enough to hold a sword, Keldaf had ben distraught. But the tear streaked faces of his sons, at the side of their mother's deathbed, had told the Keldaf more words were worth of the needs of the brothers. Since then, the king was sure to set aside time to spend with his boys, not as the kings with the princes, but as a father with his sons.

Those memories, of his father's drive to be the parent that Hödir and Korvan had both needed, told him what he should do. "Do you remember, years ago, when you sent me to Solitude, to study at the Bard's College? Before the Dominion invaded?"

"Aye, lad, I do."

"And do you remember the letters I would send home, of my times and activities in the city?"

"Aye."

"What I never wrote in those letters, what I didn't tell you or Korvan, was that I had met someone, while I was studying at the College."

Keldaf remained silent, his eyes intent, watching his son.

"I met here one day, while I was walking the city. She was in a shop, the Radiant Raiment, bargaining for a dress. I just thought her simply some native, up to the city for her shopping, yet something was so different about, that I could not get her out of my head. She left before I could speak, and it was not til that night, at a dinner party in the Blue Palace. The Jarl was feeling festive for some reason or another, I forget what, and I had to attend as prince of the realm. I saw her there," Hödir's eyes had gone misty, are far-away look on his face, "wearing a dress of iron grey and sky blue. She wore a circlet of silver and garnet, and a necklace of wolves' teeth, centered with a pendant of gold set with sapphires."

Keldaf's eyes shot up. While such dresses were, or had been, common across Skyrim, the necklace of teeth and gold was most certainly not. "Who was this lass, Hödir?" The king asked cautiously.

"Her name was Guinen, the Daughter of Tormod, Chieftain of the Deepwood Tribe of the Reachers."

Keldaf froze in his seat, he face expressionless. A Reacher? That was unexpected. Even though his own father had signed a treaty with the Forsworn of the Reach, ending the open hostilities, their relations had only been polite at best. Indeed, many of the tribesmen were very bitter over their terms of the agreement, which restricted their sovereign territories to the Redoubts and ruins that they held, and enough land around the keeps to farm.

However, while many of the warriors and tribes folk felt cheated of the birthright to the entirety of the Reach, their chiefs saw an advantage to the treaty; indeed, for while their territories were kept to the redoubts and surrounding land, many trade roads crossed through those very lands. This granted sovereignty enabled the Reachmen to level a tax on the caravans that passed by their redoubts. Even as this tax led to an increase in the wealth of the tribes controlling the roads, those clans more remote were allowed to trade with the Nord and Breton communities. The Forsworn were gifted hunters, skilled in tracking the large game animals, such as deer, elk, bear, and sabre cat, through the cliffs, ravines, and peaks of the Reach. Those hunters could then take their goods to the city of Markath or the surrounding towns, and trade the meat and fur, as well as any ore and gems they discovered in their cave dwellings, for crafted goods and farm produce. In fact, it had become a fashion statement in the Reach, Falkreath, and western Whiterun Hold, to wear jewelry and trinkets craft from antler and bone by the Reachers.

The king furrowed his brow. But Guinen? The daughter of the most powerful of the Reach Chieftains? He something of her from his soldiers, early in the Dominion's invasion of Skyrim. When the Thalmor struck into the borderlands between Falkreath and the Reach, they began to systematically eradicate the Reacher tribes wherever they could. Swiftly, the clans of Lost Valley and Hag Rock were slaughtered, driving the remaining tribes of the southern Reach north to clan Karthspire and the Sky Haven Temple of the Blades. Chief Tormod called a clan summit, and declared war on the Dominion. For the next 3 years the Reachers fought a guerilla war within the maze of the Reach, resulting in the bloodiest fighting of the entire Thalmor campaign, save for their invasion of Hammerfell. It was during these skirmishes that Tormad died, slain ambushing a Thalmor platoon of spellswords. While the ambush was mostly successful, the Thalmor commander, a Justicar named Calumsar, escaped after killing Tormad. Calumsar would later lead the siege of Markath, which lasted 5 months, before breaking in through undiscovered Dwemer tunnels.

After the death of her father, Guinen had gone on to further unite her people, leading ever more daring and successful raids on the Dominion, ransacking supply depots and savaging the logistic caravans from Falkreath and Hammerfell. Her will, charisma, and courage held the Reacher factions together until their final stand at Broken Tower Redoubt, where her forces final broke under witch-elf spell fire and fel lightnings. Even then, she managed to avoid a route, successfully leading what remained of her people eastward, into Whiterun Hold, and eventually to the Eastmarch.

 _And this is the woman that my son met?_ Keldaf thought to himself. It astounded him; his son, prince of Skyrim, in love with a Reacher woman? And the most successful leader they ever had at that? _By Oblivion, her actions at unifying her people earned her that title: Uncrowned Queen of the Reach._

The king coughed lightly, covering the pause in his response to Hödir's statement. "I take from your mood, lad, that this relationship was no gentle tavern bedding, born of drink and cheery times?"

Hödir smirked, his expression self-deprecating. "Aye, it was no idle drunken tumble, father. No, it was intense, fiery, and true. We loved each other as deeply as one mortal can love another. Indeed, when I remember it, I think of the way you used to speak of mother, how you doted on her, championed her, clung to her when you were hurt in battle. I think what Guinen and I had was something like that, or at least, it could have been. But I choose my duty to you and the realm over her in the end."

Keldaf leaned over, and placed a rough, weapon calloused hand on the young man's shoulders. "Tell me, lad."

Hödir looked into his father's old, lined face. "We would spend our days together, every day of the 2 years I studied in the college. When it was sunny and warm, we would wander the mountain paths of the Haafingar, visiting the old tombs and glades. Or we would walk the streets of Solitude, and dance in the Jarl's palace. We were happy. It only grew deeper when I took her to my bed, were no woman had come before. I never saw her as some random dalliance, a pleasant pastime to be enjoyed then put aside when it was over. I am not my brother. I saw her as woman, a warrior, a princess of her people in her own right. She was gifted at speech and wit; I saw her maneuver the Jarl into granting her clan trade rights with Dragonbridge, while never uttering a word of promises or incentives. Her strength at arms outmatched any man of the city guard, and her skill with magic was the envy of every spellcaster from Brinewater Grotto to Knife Point Ridge. And her touch was gentle on every child she saw, her voice kind to the elderly, and her will was firm to any who met her eye."

Now Hödir could feel the cheeks begin to roll down his face. "I loved her more than my own life, and still, I shamed her. The day I got your command, to return to the Eastmarch, I was t set off at once. On the very steps of the Temple of the Divines, Guinen begged for me to stay, but I could not disobey you. She begged to accompany me, but I knew her people would soon be at war with the Dominion themselves, and I would not have her shame her tribesmen, for leaving them in their hour of need. I knew that if she followed, she would risk breaking her bond to her clan, forsaking them and face banishment from her home. I would not do that to her. So I broke my own bond with her, for the sake of our peoples, I broke our bond and our hearts."

Hödir's eyes turned back the statue of Talos. "And now, she is here; with the rest of her people, all that remains. And all she bears towards me is hate. Hate for my choice to place the wellbeing of her people and my own, over us." Those last words came out as a whisper. Hödir's face was tight and pained, and something flickered in his eyes, something that cried out that this hate alone was not the sole reason for the Prince's pain, but Keldaf did not push. Hödir's secrets were his own; free to share only when he wished it so.

Keldaf sat with his son in the silence of the Temple, empty of all things save the statue of a god and two tired men. It seemed like hours had passed before a strong blast of wind shook the old temple doors on their hinges, disturbing the quiet, and startling the Nords out of their reverie.

Hödir glanced at the high windows. "It's getting on to dusk, father. They will come looking for us soon, if we do not return to the muster."

The king sighed. "A king's work is never done, my boy. That's a lesson you should take to heart; a king's work is never done. Come, let's get some food into us and take stock of what has been accomplished in our absence, and see what needs to be done on the morrow. I believe Weirgnayr wishes to bring to bring my attention to the amount of shines and holy amulets the priests wish to bring, while Nuthomar hopes to fight for the space to pack staff building apparatuses."

Hödir smiled weakly at his father. For some reason, he felt a bit better. True, the grief for a lost child he had never known would haunt him for the rest of his life, but it would no longer blind him to his responsibilities. He would mourn later, when the work was finished, and he would pay his penance for his sin. His eyes grew hard. _And I will never let myself forget the harm I brought to Guinen, for I am the cause of all her pain._ He would pay for that crime against her as well. But now there was work to be done, a portal to build, and a world to flee to.

Far to the west, on the Great Porch of Dragonsreach, several men in long robes lounged around a table. On the table was a map of Skyrim, most of it marked in gold, miniature flags of eagle crest stabbed into the locations of Markath, Falkreath, Morthal, Solitude, Dawnstar, and Whiterun. Small stones, painted gold, were bunched near Helgen and Fort Dunstad. Likewise, much smaller groupings of gray stones were placed near Fort Fellhammer, Fellglow Keep, and Haemar's Shame.

One of the black robed figures was staring down at the map, the light of his eye, when seen from under the shadows of his hood, was manic. At his side was a heavy, brutal mace; the head was carved in the likeness of a snarling horned daedra, and a sick green shimmer flickered over the flanged surface. Another blck robed form leaned against a nearby balustrade, cleaning his nails with a dagger of impossible make, wrought of ebony yet straight as a razor, with a obsidian pommel stone. This man's face was impassive, bored even, yet he too shared a feral gleam to his golden eyes.

A third man stood facing out across the plains of Whiterun Hold. On his back was a long katanna of ebony, line of gold filigree etched around the hilt and along the blade. Unlike his companions, his eyes showed nothing. Indeed, his eyes were covered by a black cloth scarf, red designs sewn into the material.

The first man looked up from the map. "He's late."

The second man glanced over to the first. "He is the Grand Justicar. I'm sure there are many demands on his time. We are not the only people of interest in this Divine-forsaken block of ice. Likely, he was needed, to instruct General Korthmir on the proper manner in which to handle prisoners. I hear the good general was actually trying to make the stay of those mangy snow dogs comfortable, at least until it was time to hand them over to us."

The first man snorted. "I heard he actually tried to treat with commander of the command post we took 2 months ago, what was it, Duskglow Crevice? Those filthy barbarians were raiding our troop lines along the Northern Road between here and Dawnstar. They deserved to be slaughtered to a one, their souls caught and given to the master, not treated as prisoners. They are not people. They are animals that have been off the leash for too long." He reached down and stroked the mace at his side lovingly. "Our ancestors made a mistake, allowing the slaves to think of themselves as people, to even pray. The gods belong to us, not those pale skinned abominations. Alessia should have been killed the moment she poked her head from between her bitch of a mother's legs."

The second man sighed. "We have had this argument, and I agree with you. The very fact that Akatosh actually listen to that pitiful human shows us that he could never have been our god, Auri-el. What god would turn their back on us, their own children, in favor of the upstart spawn of the Lying One? No god could, that's who. The Gods are ours. Shame we didn't realize the truth of Akatosh, til it was too late. Oblivion, we might have never have known, were it not for our masters. That they would aid us in this war only proves that they have been our true gods all along."

The first man spat. "War? This isn't a war. It's extermination. It was when the Snow Prince burned Sarthaal to the ground, and it still is today. It has merely been delayed. We shall sweep into the Eastmarch and burn Windhelm to the ground. We will slaughter the refugees, and sacrifice the children to our masters. And finally prove to the world, that Nirn belongs to Mer, not Man."

"And so shall it be, Valthemar, Herald of Molag-Bal. So it shall."

The two men who had been speaking turned to the door at the end of the Great Porch, though the third, silent man still looked out over the plains. From the doors walked 4 figures. 3 were lithe, graceful, with seductively swaying hips that spoke to their obvious female nature. But their face could not be seen. Instead of the black hoods of the Justicars, they wore masks. The masks had narrow slit eyes, and were ridged, making them look like they were made from the scales of some sea dwelling creature. The women's robes were black, and they carried bronze staves, carved with the heads of dragons.

But it was the man in the front who had spoken. He wore, not the black robes of a Justicar, but red robes, with heavy gold and bronze ornamentation, and stiff should ornaments decorations as dragons. At his hip was a sword so repulsive that the two men who had turned to greet him couldn't bear to look at it. It was heavy, broad, and slightly curved. The blade was a green-black, with an oily look, as if it was dipped in some kind of foul slime. The guard was a mass of writhing tentacles. In the man's hand was a staff of similar appearance, dripping oily green filth and topped with twisting, squirming tentacles. But the mask on his face drew their focus. It was a golden bronze color, covering of the man's face while sweeping back to cover the top of his head. It had the same slit for eyes, but instead of the appearance of scales, it resembled the arms of a squid from the western seas.

"Grand Justicar Shadismar, we are honored by your august appearance." The second man intoned.

"And you honor me, Taldamar, Herald of Mehrunes Dagon. Come, let us be seated. Will you join us, Letulmar, Herald of Mephala?"

The third, silent man turned, his covered eyes unreadable, and slowly walked to the join the assembly of High Justicars of the Aldemeri Dominion, and Ondolemar, Grand Justicar, and Herald of Hermaeus Mora.

Guinen stalked through the massive refugee camp outside the walls of Windhelm. Her destination, the area allocated to the Forsworn of the Reach, was located in the Mzulft Foothills. The shear distance from the city it had taken her most of the day to return to her people, after spending a night in the city, working out preparations for the Reacher's crossing of the portal. Now Masser was rising to its zenith, though Secundus was hidden behind its sister moon, and she was ready to return to her blankets to sleep til the snows came. It was wishful thinking, she knew; she would be wakend at dawn, and would soon be occupied with the tasks of readying the remnant of the Forsworn to move closer to the portal.

As the lights of camp fires came into view, Guinen, thought back to her encounter with Hödir. The day of trudging through the refugee camp had dulled some the anger she had built up during her screaming fit with her former lover, but it still smoldered in her heart. She understood that she hadn't been fair to him, knew that if she had only told him of her condition at the time, he would have moved the spheres themselves to make her happy, to keep her safe. Yet she still resented that he chose his responsibilities over his attachment to her. Was she not worth abandoning his home, his duties, to be with her? She had thought so of him. Had he asked, she would have gladly fled her home to follow across the whole of Skyrim. Yet he had chosen to fulfil his duty as a prince of the realm, and he had insisted that she do the same. She cursed him and his vow to protect the people. His selfless sense of the greater good, his noble sense of self-sacrifice, had ruined her happiness. _Yet_ , she thought to herself, _that's why I fell in love with him in the first place._ She had watched him give to the poor of Solitude til had no more gold to give. He had gone to work at the local forge, crafting whatever he could sell, so that he could give still more to the needy.

She had seen him carry ailing children, stricken elderly, and infirmed cripples to the temple for healing, and then paid for the service himself. For all his strength as a warrior, or skills as a diplomat, it was his caring heart that had captured her own. Now her heart bled, though years had passed since he had left at the steps of the Temple. For all that she had screamed at him, struck him, hurt him in his heart with her cruel words, she still loved him, deep within the recesses of herself.

She shook herself from the memoires as she drew up to the line of stakes that mark the edge of Reacher territory. The two guards at the sole opening in the fence raised fists to their hearts. "Hail Lady Guinen, Queen of the Reach. We have looked to your return."

Guinen nodded her head in acknowledgement of the greeting as she passed the guards. Walking through the camp, she could hear calls and hails from all sides. "Hail Lady Guinen." "Lady Guinen." "My Queen." "Queen Guinen." Exhaustion creeping over her, she wearily raised a hand to general greeting, as she stumbled to her tent. The men before it, one on either side of the opening, had skin a nearly deathly pale, and in their chests were glowing seeds instead of hearts. They were the last Briarhearts alive, for all the hagravens were dead, and none now knew the secret of granting the life of the earth to the mightiest warriors of the Reach. These last two now served as her bodyguards, willing to sell their hard won lives for hers in a heartbeat, had they one. One lifted the tent flap, letting their queen enter the tent unhindered.

No sooner had Guinen passed through the opening, allowing it to close, then she heard an excited cry.

"Momma! Momma, your home!"


End file.
